El-P

Time heals all wounds, the saying goes. Whoever coined the expression obviously never anticipated the music of rapper, super-producer and Definitive Juxtaposition head honcho El-P, whose white-hot anger has stayed as unwaveringly fierce as his independent aesthetic. Five years after the release of the critically acclaimed Fantastic Damage comes his highly anticipated new full-length, I’ll Sleep When You’re Dead, which features guest appearances from Trent Reznor, The Mars Volta, Cat Power and numerous other indie luminaries. Synthesis recently spoke with El-P about his native New York City, choices in song titles and why tinfoil makes for a damn fine wrapping paper.

You expressed a kind of begrudging admiration for Kanye West in a recent interview with The Onion. Why is that?
Well, it’s not begrudging, but I could see how it would sound like that. I think he’s an interesting cat; the interviewer was asking me about people out there in the music scene who I think are interesting. No matter how you look at it, you need people who are out there with personalities who are stirring shit up, people with vision. I think Kanye’s music is dope, and the second he said that shit about Bush he became much bigger than that. You know, he wears his heart on his sleeve, and says shit that some people find incredibly ridiculous and annoying, but he’s operating on his own terms, ignoring whatever the current moods or trends are, and he’s projecting his own mood and ideas.

You told Pitchfork that you’re “going for the worst song titles of all time” with “Tasmanian Pain Coaster.” What’s the story behind that?
The deal with “Tasmanian Pain Coaster” was that I was talking about using it for the album title, and a friend told me that it was the worst album title of all time—I was still drawn to it, though. The song “Tasmanian Pain Coaster” is about bumping into someone on a train and casually asking them how they’re doing and being pulled into a conversation with them. You’re trapped, and the train is bending into hell, and it’s just the worst possible train you can imagine being on. How I arrive at song titles is that they’re usually a joke that I have with myself. With song titles it’s like wrapping Christmas presents up in tinfoil — you can wrap that bitch up in anything and it’s still the same present inside.

Do you really wrap Christmas presents in tinfoil?
All the time. Tinfoil is shiny, fuck yeah.

Is that song based on something or someone in particular?
Yeah, it is. It’s an amalgamation of experiences.

Do you feel like the nature of hip-hop is inherently collaborative? You didn’t list the guests you had on the back of Fantastic Damage. Do you feel like it’s a distraction for most people?
I don’t do records that are about collaborations; most people can’t even tell where the collaborations are. It doesn’t sound like a song where it’s like, “Featuring!...” just to have that name on the record. I try to make it subtle and, hopefully, tastefully done. I don’t want to pimp people’s names just to sell my records; it’s more about having the collaborators fit organically into where I thought that they would. It’s also about friendships that I have, and timing with those people. I’m not making too big a deal about it. It’s exciting, but it could be taken the wrong way. I don’t want to come off like a douchebag. This is an El-P album — but when you listen to it, you’ll wonder who’s singing a bridge here and there. It’s a cooler way to do it.

You talk about New York on your new album, which is not new territory for you. It’s been a topic you’ve addressed in the past. In “Smithereens” you talk about “Mayor Doomberg.” What are you saying about New York right now?
I’ve said this before, that this is my post-traumatic stress syndrome album. The song “Smithereens” is about that, New York City being blown to smithereens. It’s about post-traumatic stress syndrome; that’s where the chorus comes from: “PTS stress, we do drugs.” It won’t apply to everybody in New York, but then again it will also apply to some people outside of it. I wanted to capture something, and the source of my life. I wanted to come out and rep it in a real way, honestly. I don’t feel like people rep the normal motherfuckin’ stress, because not everybody is a fuckin’ drug dealer. It’s the city I live in and suffer in. I wanted to realistically capture the post-9/11 stress, because something’s been sucked out of the city. Everyone’s trucking along, pretending that all the machinery is still working, and that includes the social machinery, but I think there’s a huge gap of what people are ignoring. The city is falling to bits, and people are losing it. I’ve had moments of straight insanity over the past five years, and I know other people have, too. There are people dying. There’s so much depth and stuff to say that I needed to take a snapshot, because the city is losing its structure. Everything costs too much, everyone’s making too little, and people are just going through it. The skies are gray.
    
On “Tasmanian Pain Coaster” you say, “This is the sound of what you don’t know killin’ you,” and on “Fantastic Damage” you said, “The name of this routine is live at, man, you just don’t get it,” and “You misinterpreted that Funcrush shit.” Can you give me some examples of people outside of hip-hop who don’t get you, and people inside it also misinterpreting you?
That line is completely different from the Fantastic Damage one. Fantastic Damage came out not long after Company Flow, when people assumed we had a certain perspective on things that we didn’t necessarily have. The impression that some people have is often different from the reality of how I am. That’s why I wrote that. We’re straight B-boy cats, and people threw a lot of stuff at us where we were like, “What the fuck is this?” We were weirdos, too, just cats who are artists. With the “TPC,” though, it’s about how there are things we don’t know about or believe in that are killing us. A lot of ideas and physical things are going on that are contributing to us dying. As far as me being misunderstood, I could give a fuck. I love what I’m doing and I’ve never been something I’m not. I don’t do what everybody feels; that’s pop music. But I think people respect me because I’ve never tried to sell them a faulty product. I think I come across as genuine, and that comes from being a stand-up person and secure in what you do. But no, I don’t sit around thinking about being misinterpreted or misunderstood.

On your Web site you said your new album “will disgust people.” Why would it do that?
Because there are moments of honesty that are uncomfortable. I don’t know if it’s going to disgust people, like in the sense that it’s going to have them vomiting, or anything. But I think people are not used to rap artists being real with people, and saying shit and going there in a way that doesn’t always present them as being a good person or being a cool person, or “right.” My album is chock-full with emotion and disclosure. That’s what this shit is about to me, that very real, alive shit. The only responsibility I feel I have is to come out kicking and screaming.



In an interview you did with Max Sidman for Synthesis, you were talking about some fans and you said, “I’m not your brother, or your daddy,” and, “I’m not your friend.” Can you break down your concept of your role as an artist, and why you make music?
That sounds like a pretty prickish thing to say, taken out of context. My role is to translate, eloquently, the things we all feel and experience. I do believe there is a responsibility, and that makes me sound like I’m disrespectful and don’t give a fuck about my fans, which is not true. I’m just not about making you feel great. I’m not above anybody. I think that the fans identify with that, and it’s something they can connect themselves to. That’s the reason I fell in love with music, those albums I listened to whenever I was feeling sad, or I was feeling angry, or I was feeling happy. I think my responsibility is to provide those things eloquently and with the right intentions, and to give cats what they want. I feel like I actually just answered this question, but it’s open, and I think all kids really want is for you to be really good at being who you are, or to hear something that triggers a feeling or a real experience. Otherwise it’s background music, as opposed to a powerful film where you’re unsettled when you leave the theater. Those kinds of films with that kind of turmoil have been my favorite films. It’s about a succinct and honest and interesting execution of what’s going on in your head. You’re betraying fans when you’re not being yourself.   

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